


one last hurrah

by cosmicpoet



Category: Alexander Hamilton - Ron Chernow, Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Angst, Combahee River, Death, M/M, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-29
Updated: 2018-11-29
Packaged: 2019-09-02 08:31:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,091
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16783378
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cosmicpoet/pseuds/cosmicpoet
Summary: Laurens was there at Yorktown, he is aware of the direction that the war, almost over, is taking. And yet, this is his last chance to fight. His last chance to die in battle.





	one last hurrah

The slick of war beats down on Laurens’ brow, his bedsheets wet with fever and restlessness. Ache settles into each atom of himself; he is no stranger to the familiarity of hurt, only, the helplessness that trails behind still hurts even in the norm of seeping back into his body. Since birth, he’s been a disappointment - or, at least, that’s what he was trained like a dog or a soldier to believe. No matter where he stands, or how many men will fall under his command, he will maintain in earnest that he was never made for this world, only for its wars.

Still, like the eyes of his father bore into him at the beginning of the war, he feels now the entrapment of a sick man, clinging to his last chance. Through the revolution, the treaty at Yorktown, those nights as an aide-de-camp where the sound of bullets only half-healed him from the forbidden nature of his own love. _Of him who promises much, much will be expected,_ he hears his own voice in his head, tracing the engraving on the box that his father gave him.

And what has he promised? Glory to his country, for no means less than selfish, in that he regrets having only one life through which he can pave the path for better men to walk. Glory to his family, his father, a pipe dream now; but he does not care for the approval of his father any more. Strange, to think, he studied law, rather than medicine, married Manning for his honour, all whilst begging for a sip of communion wine to absolve himself under the eyes of the Father.

There are more important things to do now.

He thinks of Manning, of his _child,_ who must, in some respect, look like him, although he feels completely and wholly dissociated from the idea of being a father himself. It’s an easy enough decision to realise that he never loved her, that marriage was an obligation, and, later, something to run from - a decision made in haste, to try and _fix_ himself, those sweet thoughts that cannot possibly be bad in that they are formed of purest love, and yet…

What would his father think, should he read the letters to Hamilton?

And of Hamilton, what to think now? How he will continue to rise, and _oh,_ the glory, _oh,_ the timelessness of such a man, it’s hard to believe that Laurens can craft himself a place by his side any more. His mind, ever the enemy, takes him from his soldier’s stance and tells him that he was naught more than a method of keeping out the cold at Valley Forge. Hamilton has Eliza, a _Schuyler,_ and what of Laurens now? Yes, it’s easy, no, _rational_ to assume that there is nothing left in this chapter of Hamilton’s life.

Still, he cannot close the book. For as long as there is breath in his lungs, and ache in his mind, he will cling to that man. 

As such, that can be fixed.

It is not long before he hears of the British gathering supplies at Charleston; the retreat is imminent, if not underway already, but the glory that grips his heart pushes him from his sickbed and to his desk, where he pens his soul into ink, begs for a command. 

He gets what he asked for, what he is given, what he deserves.

As the horses take him down Combahee River, nearing Chehaw Point, the geography of the matter whisks itself away from his mind. Naturally, people will think he has underestimated the British, when he sees them sneak from their hiding place in ambush - no, he _hoped_ this would happen. For surviving this would mean a retreat back home, perhaps even a convincing union with Manning once more - a pretence that he must play for the rest of his life. The loving husband, doting father, and _oh_ those days with Hamilton must be but a memory.

The British advance further, and now is the moment to decide; the finality of it all. Were he a better man, Laurens may have considered this the final act, but he is nothing if not humble when it comes to matters of himself, and whilst seeking glory, he knows that this is an insignificant fight at the end of the world. How wonderful, how fitting it would have been to die at Yorktown, and perhaps even for Hamilton to see his body - what little life left in him would have saved itself for the glory of love, _one last time._ And maybe Hamilton would have cried, which would have broke his heart, but god, he would have gone out feeling like he made a difference.

So, _ici et maintenant,_ it will have to do. He comforts himself. Death will be merciful, or at least better than the alternative, and isn’t this how he always wanted to go out? Not quite the blaze of glory he was hoping for, but at least in battle, sword by his side and the irredeemable chaos of war ringing in his ears.

He charges. Falls from his horse.

The shot that aches in his ears pierces his flesh, but he, John Laurens, is no stranger to pain. His right shoulder twinges with the memory of previous shots, the ones in greater battles that couldn’t quite finish the job for him. This time, it is fatal, he knows from the blood that pools onto his hands - no point now in applying pressure to the wound, but old habits die hard for soldiers.

He thinks that the sky must look beautiful in its equality. These same clouds, the same breaking horizon that glistened across Hamilton’s shoulders in the mornings they spent together, now cradling him towards death; and now, he’s thinking, not of his father, or of Manning, or his child, but only of Hamilton. He hopes that Hamilton will not receive news of his death from his father, oh, anyone but Henry Laurens, but that is secondary.

No will can be carried out here. Only the final exhale of aching lungs, dying against an insignificant backdrop. But he has finally done it, he’s died in battle, albeit for glory that was already achieved. Like everything he views that he has done, it feels melancholy in its subpar nature. Still, all’s well that ends well.

A martyr for his own self destruction.

_“Alexander, there’s a letter for you.”_

_“It’s from John Laurens, I’ll read it later.”_

_“No. It’s from his father.”_

**Author's Note:**

> I watched Hamilton on West End last week and HOLY SHIT I loved it, I've found myself super interested in the history of Laurens again. He's one of my favourite historical figures, and the musical did him such justice! So I thought I'd write something little based on his death, since it's only seen as an interlude in the musical (which is still such a sad moment...tomorrow there'll be more of us...)
> 
> Anyway, three cheers to the man who helped me come to terms with my sexuality back in 2016! I'm happy in my identity as a lesbian and researching Laurens certainly helped me get to that point. I'm so lucky to have supportive friends and family (FUCK my old catholic school for ever telling me otherwise) and I hope that, if Heaven exists, he can see now just how accepting the world is.
> 
> Hope you enjoyed! Please comment if you did!


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